The fire crackled softly as Captain Elias tore a piece of bread from the loaf, dipping it into a thick, steaming stew. The scent of slow-cooked meat, onions, and garlic filled the air—a cruel contrast to the battlefield waiting beyond the hills.
Across from him, his men ate in silence, their faces lit by the flickering flames. Some savored each bite, as if imprinting the taste into memory. Others ate quickly, as if fearing time would steal their last meal.
Elias knew the truth: most of them wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.
He watched Corporal Rami close his eyes with every spoonful, a quiet smile on his lips. “Reminds me of home,” Rami murmured. “My mother used to make something like this.”
Elias swallowed hard. “Then we’ll fight to make sure you can taste it again.”
Dawn arrived too soon. As the first light bled across the sky, the men rose, fastening their armor, gripping their swords. The fire had died, leaving only cold embers.
Elias took one last bite of bread, the taste now distant, like a memory already fading.
Then, without a word, they marched toward fate.